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“He generally is, particularly when he believes I might have something to eat.”

“How did you come to know him?”

George looked toward the little dog, which had begun investigating the hem of her gown. “Pippin was once employed to turn a roasting spit in the kitchen of a large inn.”

Cordelia stared. “I beg your pardon?”

“A turnspit dog,” George explained. “He was made to run inside a wheel for hours at a time, turning the meat above an open fire.”

Horror swept through her. “Surely you cannot mean that he was forced to do so?”

“I am afraid I do.”

“But the heat!”

“Was considerable, as was the exhaustion. When he came to us, his paws were badly injured, and he was so weak he could scarcely stand. He had been worked almost to death.”

Her heart twisted. “Oh, you poor darling.” She crouched carefully and held out her hand, and Pippin immediately pressed his small head into her palm.

“He has recovered remarkably well. These days, his greatest hardship is being denied a second helping at supper.”

She smiled faintly, though the ache in her chest remained. “Thank goodness you found him.”

“He was brought here by one of the men who works for me. I employ several people who travel through the surrounding counties, looking for animals in need of assistance.”

Cordelia straightened. She looked around her, suddenly seeing the estate through entirely different eyes. These were not merely indulged pets belonging to an eccentric nobleman, but creatures who had been given another chance at life. “George,” she whispered, “this is extraordinary.”

He said nothing, merely offered his arm once more, and they continued toward the larger enclosures. As they approached, Cordelia noticed that the grounds were far busier than she had first realized. Men and women moved between the stables, kennels, and outbuildings, carrying buckets of water, baskets of feed, and bundles of fresh straw. Several workers groomed horses beneath the shade of a broad oak, while others tended dogs resting in spacious, sheltered runs.

She counted at least twenty people before losing track. “Good heavens. How many people work here?”

“More than thirty at present, though the number varies according to our needs. We have stable hands, grooms, attendants, and men experienced in tending livestock. Several women also help care for the smaller animals.” He smiled faintly. “A veterinary surgeon visits regularly, though I had to tempt him with a rather handsome fee before he would agree to attend to anything other than horses. He was quite appalled when I informed him that his patients would include dogs, cats, badgers, sheep, and whatever other unfortunate creatures might require his attention.”

“Why should he object?” Cordelia asked, puzzled. “Surely a veterinary surgeon ought to understand how to treat all animals, not merely horses?”

“The profession has devoted most of its attention to horses. The King’s stables, the racing establishments of wealthy gentlemen, and the cavalry all require skilled surgeons. A valuable racehorse may be worth a small fortune, and its owner will spare no expense to preserve its health. Consequently, the treatment of horses has received considerably more study than that of other creatures.”

“How very unfair. Surely a dog’s suffering is no less deserving of attention simply because he cannot win a race or earn his master a fortune.”

“Fortunately, some surgeons have begun to recognize the need for better care of other animals, but such changes come slowly, particularly when there is little financial incentive to encourage them.”

Something in his tone made her glance at him. His expression had grown cold, and though she could not quite interpret it, she knew his love for animals ran far deeper than the ordinary affection most people held for their pets. She could scarcely imagine the anger he must have felt upon witnessing the cruelty these creatures had endured.

“How dreadful that compassion should require a financial incentive,” Cordelia said softly.

“Indeed.” His expression grew more reserved. “I have never understood why the worth of a creature’s life should be measured solely by the money it might bring its owner.”

She watched as a young man gently lifted an elderly dog from a blanket and carried it into the sunshine. Another worker knelt beside a horse and examined one of its hooves. There was no impatience in their movements, no roughness or indifference, and Cordelia was struck by the care with which every creature was treated, whether a magnificent stallion or a small, scruffy dog. “They seem very devoted.”

“They are,” George replied.

They reached the first large enclosure, where several horses grazed contentedly. One was a beautiful chestnut mare with a white blaze down her face. As they approached, she lifted her head and regarded George with evident interest. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small piece of carrot. “Good afternoon, Duchess.”

The mare approached eagerly.

Cordelia smiled. “Duchess?”

“She has always possessed a rather exalted opinion of herself.”